The Myth of Getting Back to Normal

Life adapts. There's something people often say when life takes an unexpected turn: "You'll get back to normal." It's usually meant to be comforting, a way of reassuring someone that whatever they're going through won't last forever. But what happens when getting back to normal isn't actually possible? What happens when the circumstances of your life have changed so significantly that returning to the way things were is no longer an option?

Before the wheelchair, as Cardi B would say, I was outside. I enjoyed going places, being around people, attending events, and celebrating life's special moments. So naturally, there was an expectation that once I adjusted to using a wheelchair, I would eventually get back to doing all those things the way I always had. I wasn't expecting everything to be easy, but I did expect that eventually I'd find my rhythm again.

What I learned is that adapting to a disability isn't always just about learning to do things differently. Sometimes it's about navigating a world that hasn't made room for those differences.

When Getting Back Out Isn't So Simple

For quite some time, life in a wheelchair made my world much smaller. It wasn't necessarily because I no longer wanted to go anywhere. Sometimes, I simply couldn't get there. And even when I could, getting back home wasn't always guaranteed to happen when I needed it to.

Transportation can have you in a chokehold.

When you depend on transportation services, something as ordinary as going to dinner can become an exercise in planning, scheduling, and hoping everything goes according to plan. Transportation might work reasonably well for getting to a doctor's appointment and back home, but using that same system to maintain an active social life can be an entirely different experience. Unlike someone who can simply grab their keys or call a rideshare, you're often working around someone else's schedule, availability, and limitations.

I've had dinners where the meal was finished, the celebration was over, and my guests were still sitting there with me an hour and a half later because my transportation hadn't arrived. Imagine enjoying an evening with friends, only to spend the end of it wondering when you'll finally be able to leave. It's frustrating, inconvenient, and at times embarrassing, even though the circumstances are completely outside your control.

Experiences like that change how you approach everyday life. Eventually, you start considering whether accepting an invitation is worth the uncertainty of getting there and back. You think about how long an event might last, whether transportation will be available, and what happens if plans run late. Something that once required little thought becomes a decision involving multiple considerations before you've even left home.

And here's where I think the conversation about getting back to normal becomes complicated. From the outside, someone might assume you've become less social, that your interests have changed, or that you've simply gotten comfortable staying home. But there's a difference between choosing to stay home and staying home because the circumstances of getting out have become unnecessarily difficult.

That distinction matters.

I've learned to enjoy celebrations and meaningful moments in different ways. Sometimes that means ordering pizza and watching a movie, catching up with someone over FaceTime, or laughing with people I've never met in person during a YouTube live. Those experiences are real, and they count. But appreciating those alternatives doesn't mean I've stopped wanting the opportunity to participate in the things I enjoyed before.

Adaptation Shouldn't Mean Accepting Every Barrier

I think that's where the idea of finding a "new normal" sometimes gets it wrong. We talk about adaptation as though the goal is to replace everything we used to do until life feels familiar again. But adaptation isn't re-creation. It isn't rebuilding your old life piece by piece and measuring success by how closely the finished result resembles what existed before.

This applies to more than disability. Someone who loses a longtime career may discover that returning to the professional life they knew isn't possible. A person navigating grief may find that family traditions and everyday routines are forever changed. Someone becoming a caregiver may have to reconsider their priorities, their schedule, and even their understanding of independence. These experiences aren't interchangeable, but they raise a similar question: What happens when moving forward doesn't mean returning to where you started?

Sometimes the answer involves accepting that certain things have changed while recognizing that a meaningful life is still possible. But acceptance shouldn't be confused with resignation, especially when some of the obstacles we're facing are created by systems that could and should work better.

There are barriers that continue to keep wheelchair users and other disabled people isolated from their communities. Unreliable transportation, inaccessible buildings, limited personal assistance, financial constraints, and inadequate planning can all restrict participation in everyday activities. These aren't simply personal challenges to overcome with a positive attitude or a clever workaround. They're accessibility issues that deserve attention and solutions.

I can adapt how I spend my time. I can change how I celebrate, find new ways to connect with people, and develop routines that work for my life today. But I shouldn't have to quietly accept unnecessary isolation because the systems intended to support community participation don't always make it possible. And I think that distinction is worth remembering whenever we encourage someone to embrace a new normal. Not every circumstance is within our control, and not every obstacle should become our personal responsibility to solve.

Maybe the goal was never to get back to normal. Maybe it's to build a life that works now, while continuing to challenge the things that unnecessarily limit what that life can include. My life doesn't look exactly like it did before my wheelchair. Some parts probably never will, while others are gradually opening back up as I've gained more confidence, learned what works for me, and discovered additional options. I'm not trying to recreate every experience from my past, but I'm also not willing to believe that every door that closed has to remain closed.

I still enjoy being outside. I still value being around people, celebrating milestones, and experiencing everything life has to offer. Sometimes that looks different than it once did, and I've made peace with much of that. But I also recognize that there's a difference between adapting how I participate in life and being denied the opportunity to participate at all. So perhaps the question isn't whether we'll ever get back to normal. Perhaps it's whether we're creating a life that reflects who we are today, while making sure the opportunities to live that life remain within reach.

Until next time, keep living, keep adapting.